Max doesn’t appear nearly as affected by our closeness as I am, although every so often he snaps his eyes shut and grits his teeth.
“I’ll drive you over to the Starlight Barn,” Hannah tells us. “That’s a popular spot for receptions, and there’s an area next to it where we conduct most of our outdoor ceremonies.”
“That would be great,” I say.
Judging by Max’s knitted brows, nothing about this trip could even remotely be described as great. I’m sure he’s still annoyed about the car debacle, but it’s not as though I engineered the whole thing. “Hey, Hannah, any chance the inn has vacancies tonight?”
She bites her lip apologetically. “Oh dear, not a chance. The inn’s completely booked. We’re hosting a couples retreat this weekend. Sorry about that.”
“Is there another place we could stay until morning?” Max asks. “Somewhere not too far away?”
“Not within an hour from here, no. But we can always put you up in the barn. You’d be surprised how comfortable hay can be.”
“I’m sure that’s why so many people roll in it,” Max says under his breath.
I elbow him in the side. “Quit it.”
A particularly brutal bump in the road suddenly sends me careening against Max. Scrambling to soften the impact, I brace one hand against Hannah’s headrest and grasp onto Max with the other. Unfortunately, Max’s crotch is the body part I inadvertently grab. My body locks into place, as though my traitorous brain knows an opportunity when it feels one. I can’t look. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Neither can Max apparently, because he’s still as a stone, too.
The truck rolls to a stop and Hannah jumps out. “Here we are, folks. I’ll give you a few minutes to look around while I check my messages.”
Now that the engine’s turned off, Max’s breathing is audible. And it’s labored. For that matter, so’s mine.
“Um, Lina, can you unhand me?”
He whispers the question; it’s no less embarrassing at a lower decibel.
Slowly, as if a lack of speed will somehow make the movement undetectable, I turn my head to meet Max’s questioning gaze. My hand is on his crotch. My. Hand. Is on. His crotch. But I’m incapable of doing anything about it.
“Lina,” he repeats sharply, the last vowel ending with a tortured moan.
I gasp, yelp, and unhand him—in that order—and then I scramble to exit the car on the driver’s side. From Max’s perspective, I’m sure it’s just ass and elbows flailing, but at least I manage to get out physically unscathed. Mentally, though, I’m a big ol’ mess. If another disaster strikes during the remainder of this trip, I’ll know it was cursed from the outset.
Chapter Eighteen
Max
I already know what I’ll be dreaming about tonight: hand jobs. Quick ones, slow ones, surreptitious ones, urgent ones. And because the universe hates me, the featured guest in my subconscious will be Lina’s hand. I didn’t set out for this to be the case, but here we are.
Stomping after Lina, who’s power walking toward the barn, I try to talk myself out of my unruly thoughts: There’s nothing to see here. It was an awkward mistake and nothing more. She doesn’t think of you in that way. You shouldn’t be thinking of her in that way, either. Remember all the reasons Dean laid out for you? Jot them down on a Post-it and staple that shit to your forehead.
When I enter the barn, Lina’s circling the space, pausing every few feet or so to ask Hannah a question. No one would ever suspect that she had her hand on my crotch only a minute ago. If she can put the episode behind her, so can I. Maybe.
“How many seventy-two-inch round tables can we fit in this area?” she asks Hannah.
“Comfortably?” Hannah says. “Sixteen. We could squeeze in two more, but that wouldn’t leave much room for a dance floor.”
Lina points up at the roof. “Rainproof?”
“Rain-resistant,” Hannah says. “It’s metal, and the panels are raised so runoff is good.”
“What about gutters?”
“Gutters and leaders replaced just two years ago.”
Lina’s gaze darts from one end of the barn to the other as she ticks off her mental checklist. Her inspection is systematic and thorough. She even leans against a post to test if it creaks. Hannah takes it all in stride. I bet she knows a professional when she sees one.
“And do you have a liquor license?” Lina asks.
Hannah laughs. “Babette—she’s the owner—wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Lina ambles past me; she doesn’t even glance my way. Her uncompromising focus is one of her many strengths, and as I watch her, I try to imagine the marketing copy that would convey this particular benefit of hiring her. I easily picture the visual: Lina attending to her tasks and ignoring two families in formal wedding attire brawling in a working fountain.
“How’s the barn powered?” Lina asks. “Generators?”
Oh, right. A wedding needs electricity. I’d be so bad at event planning if someone put me in charge.
“A couple of years ago, we ran power lines out to the barn, so it’s on the grid,” Hannah says. “What date are the Jensens contemplating?”
“May of next year,” Lina says.
“You’re in luck, then. We’re switching to solar power by the end of March. We’ll be able to run everything—lights, heat lamps, A/V equipment—courtesy of the sun.”
Lina, plainly pleased with that news, nods enthusiastically. “The Jensens will love that. An environmentally friendly venue would be a huge plus for them.”
Hannah checks her watch. “If you don’t have any other questions, I’m going to head back to the office before I leave for the day. When you’re ready to tour the inn, just head on out there. Someone will be able to show you the common areas, kitchen, and powder rooms.”
Lina gives her a polite nod. “Thanks so much, Hannah. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”
When we’re alone, I turn to Lina with what I’m sure is awe in my eyes. For people looking to plan a wedding, hiring Lina should be a no-brainer. “Confession: Many of those questions wouldn’t have occurred to me.”
“Wouldn’t have occurred to my clients, either,” she says. “That’s why I include location tours as part of my services.” She motions for me to follow her. “Let’s head outside. I’d like to snap a few pics of the ceremony area. The website has a photo gallery, but I didn’t get any sense of scale.”
The area’s a swath of grass surrounded by a circular stone path with a mix of pine and oak trees dotting the perimeter. “What if it rains?” I ask her.
“We either move the ceremony inside or rent a tent as our Plan B.” She spins to face the inn behind us. “It’s nice that the dressing and sleeping areas are so close.”
“It’d be nice if we could stay in one of those rooms tonight,” I say.
True to form, she ignores me and takes photos with her phone. A few clicks in, it rings. She looks at the screen and breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s TJ. I hope he has good news.”